


Under the Artificial Light

by scottmon3y



Category: Le Magasin des suicides | The Suicide Shop - Jean Teulé
Genre: Anorexia, Mental Illness, PTSD, Terrorism, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottmon3y/pseuds/scottmon3y
Summary: A few snippets of Vincent’s life after dealing with a traumatic experience.(This is based off my theory that book Vincent is suffering from PTSD. It’s far too detailed to explain here but if you want to hear it I’m more than happy to talk to you about it.)





	1. Trauma

It came from seemingly nowhere at all.

BOOM.

He covered his ears to no effect.

BOOM.

It just kept on rattling around his cranium.

BOOM.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

When it was finished they limped out of the dust and rock and glass, all the way back home, into the waiting arms of his dad. 

He told them how relieved he was to see them. He sent them to the bathroom to clean up, and then helped them dress their wounds. 

By lunch it was as if nothing happened.

After dinner he was being tucked into bed.

“I don’t want to go to sleep.” he whimpered.

“Are you still afraid? Poor darling. Come here, mummy will hold you for a minute.”

He clung to her belly like he did when she shielded him.

“You’re right to be scared. The world is disgusting -“

“Who did that?” he cut in.

“I don’t know.”

“Why did that happen?”

“Nobody’s sure anymore. When I was a little girl I watched something like this on the news, and I think somebody wanted to make a point. But I was too young to understand it, and now these crazed people have lost the plot completely.” 

He pressed his face into her collarbone and tried only to hear her.

He just couldn’t let go.


	2. Agoraphobia

“Why doesn’t Vincent have to go to school?” Marilyn demanded. 

“He does.” her mother said. “Just as soon as your father manages to find him...”

Just then the far off jingling of the shop bell could be heard. Mishima dragged his son outside. The boy hung onto the door handle like his life depended on it.

“Come on, come on! The bus is coming any minute now!” 

“No!”

He tried to pry his little fingers off, but he wasn’t having it. The shopkeeper sighed. Vincent had been hiding since before his parents woke up. It took Mishima until breakfast to find him, and he’d only managed to get him into day clothes and brush his hair five minutes ago. 

“Don’t be a brat. What kind of example do you think you’re setting for your little sister?” he asked.

“I don’t care! I want to go to my room!” 

“Mishima!” called an anxious Lucrèce. He turned to see her helping Marilyn onto the school bus. She tried to stall the driver.

“Oh, God dammit...” he grumbled. With all his strength, he tore his son away from the door. Vincent kicked and screamed as he was carried off.

“No! No! I don’t want to be outside! Don’t make me!” he begged.

“So get on the bus and you won’t be outside.” Mishima set him down on the first step of the bus. He tried to jump out, but his parents quickly formed a wall behind him. He sucked in a few sharp breaths at the realization that he was trapped.

“Don’t make me!” he hiccuped. “Please!” His mom brushed his unruly red hair out of his face and shushed him. The sweet sound calmed him for a short moment.

“Go, Vincent. Don’t make everyone late.”

The driver, who was exhausted of this by now, shut the doors. He took off before Vincent could even find a seat. He wiped his wet cheeks and whined. Breathing still quick, he sulked into the front seat. A few older kids leered at him. 

“What a weird boy.” one whispered to the other. 

“Why’s he throwing a fit like that? Even his sister is fine.” another whispered back.

He ignored them completely. There were far more important things on his mind, like how he might escape at the next stop, or to even go missing completely once the bus got to the school. 

More than anything, he had to think of a better hiding place for tomorrow.


	3. Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Themes of anorexia.

Lucrèce shook her head and sighed. An increasingly skinny Vincent turned his nose up at her. 

“I’m NOT going to eat it.” he announced. With shaky hands he pushed the juicy plate of steak away to emphasize himself.

“It’s been three days since I’ve seen you take a single bite of food. You’re not planning a death by starvation, are you?” his mom asked. She fell into her seat with a few pants. Her pregnant belly weighed her down and stole her breath. Mishima caressed her hand lovingly.

“Nonsense, dear. The boy’s just got a distaste for life. His dedication is admirable.”

“Fine. But atleast drink some water.” she said. The boy grumbled and sipped lightly from his glass. Lucrèce raised an eyebrow at her husband. “And you, put down that newspaper. There’s no reading at the dinner table.”

Grumbling, he folded it up and put it away. 

“No newspaper, no radio, no TV... How do you expect me to hear the news?” 

“What would you want to hear it for? It’s all horrible. I couldn’t possibly take any more bad news.”

“That’s exactly why we should hear it! Who knows what sort of disaster is coming our way. There could be a storm we need to prepare for.” He shook his fork at her. “Say the government gives up completely and bombs us all to Hell. We’re gonna want to hear about it before it’s too late.”

Vincent squeezed his bony fingers nervously. 

“May I please be excused?” he asked. 

“Yes, yes, just go. You’ve got homework anyway.” Lucrèce said, exhausted by her family. He limped out of the room, breathing labored. 

“Anyway, how was school, Marilyn? What did you learn?” 

Thump!

The table fell silent as they stared at the dark hallway. After a few seconds of waiting Mishima got up and ran towards the commotion. His wife followed, and then his daughter. 

“Oh God! Is he dead!?” the worried mother cried.

“No, no, he’s just blacked out. Quick, let’s get him to a doctor.” He lifted the underweight child easily. While Lucrèce searched for a blanket to throw over him before they faced the cold weather, her husband shook his head. “Poor boy. Life really is that miserable, huh?”


	4. Bad Dream

Night draped itself over the Tuvache house. Everyone had long since gone to bed, but a loud wail interrupted them. They tossed and mumbled for a few seconds, then rolled over and fell back asleep.

Vincent gripped his sheets and trembled. With immense caution he turned his head up from his pillow. 

Nothing. His room was as dark and blank as always. 

He let out a massive breath and sat up. His shirt was positively soaked with sweat. The clock read 3:27 AM. 

“Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep.” he told himself. But he just couldn’t do it. When he closed his eyes the smoke rose again, twisted into hateful faces, given shape by the explosions of yellow and red. 

He opened his teary eyes again and hopped out of bed. He tiptoed to his parents’ room and cautiously cracked the door open. Alan seemed fast asleep in the crib next to the window.

“Mother.” he whispered. No reply. He crept into the room and repeated, “Mother.”

Her eyes cracked open. She stared at him blankly, as if she didn’t recognize him.

“I - I had another nightmare. I want to sleep with you.” 

She sighed and brushed back her wild hair.

“Oh, darling...” Mishima stirred next to her.

“Wha-? Are you... are you talking to me?” he slurred. She pushed on his shoulder.

“No, Vincent. He had a nightmare.” 

“Oh no, he’s not asking to sleep here again is he?”

“Father, please!” 

He was swiftly shushed. Mishima sat up and pointed to the crib.

“Don’t raise your voice. Do you know how long it took us to get that boy to sleep?” Vincent clamped his mouth shut. “And anyway, why don’t you give your poor mother a rest? She works herself half to death dealing with that baby.”

He pressed his palms over his pounding heart. His feet stomped lightly without his permission.

“It was worse than ever this time...! I’m petrified...!” 

“Go back to your room.”

“Please, please...! I’ll even sleep on the floor j-just please let me stay...! M-mother...!” he begged. A waterfall of tears flowed down his hollowed cheeks. 

“Dear...” Lucrèce whined. Her husband looked at them both with bewilderment but ultimately moved over.

“Fine, I give up. But I don’t want any more of this nonsense after tonight, you hear? You’re far too old to be sleeping with your parents.”

Vincent sniffled and nodded. Although he hated the idea of having to give up sleeping there, he wasn’t going to risk having this last chance revoked. He hastily snuggled up to his mother, who held him close. She ran her hands through his red hair.

“Hm? What’s this on your head?” she asked.

“Crêpe bandages.” he replied.

“Why?”

“My head hurts...”


	5. Danger

Curious noises were coming from Vincent’s room. He groaned and huffed in time with loud thumps. The ceiling fan downstairs shook with every move he made. As Lucrèce waited for her husband at the shop’s entrance she wondered what he was up to.

Mishima knocked on the door. The sounds stopped, and for a minute everything was silent. He was about to knock again when Vincent opened the door. 

“God, what did you do?” he asked. The boy’s hands were smeared red, and his shirt and pants were splattered the same shade. The locks of his hair that peeled out from his bandages were matted by the stuff.

Mishima turned him around and around trying to find some source of injury.

“Father, it’s paint.” 

“Oh.” Mishima grimaced at his now dirty hands. “Well, you’d better wash up. Your mother and I are going out and you have to watch Alan.”

“Do I have to? I’m so close to finishing my latest piece. Can’t Marilyn do it instead?” Vincent whined. His dad waved him off as he walked to the bathroom.

“Of course not. She’s got the flu, remember?” He flicked on the light and washed the paint from his hands. “Besides, your brother is too much for her to handle most of the time. You know how he’s always getting into things.” he said with a frown.

Vincent sighed and stripped the stained bandages from his head.

“Fine...”

An hour later he was sitting on the couch, watching his little brother sing and dance with the colorful cartoons on the TV. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“How do you stand this? It’s too bright and their singing is abysmal! My headache is worse than ever.”

Alan turned and cocked his head at him.

“Abythmal?” he asked.

“You know, awful, horrible, disastrous!” He whimpered at a sudden burst of pressure in his head. 

Alan turned the TV off manually, which his brother was thankful for. The young Tuvache bounced excitedly.

“If you don’t like TV, can we play inthtead?” 

“Play? You don’t mean... out there?” Vincent shyly pointed in the direction of the back door.

“I do!” Alan replied. 

“No way. If you go then I have to too, and I’m NOT.” 

His brother just laughed and ran away. In just a few seconds the little speed demon had worked open the back door and slammed it shut. Vincent shouted for him, but he didn’t listen. He grumbled and followed.

“Alan! Come back or I’m going to tell father you’re misbehaving!” he angrily yelled from the doorframe. 

“Why don’t you come too?” the boy chuckled. “You need thunlight anyway!” 

Vincent looked up at the sky. Clouds blotted out its usual murky, polluted color. There wasn’t a single ray to speak of. 

“I’m not kidding. Come back inside!”

Alan stopped. He craned his neck, screwing up his face into that odd grin he did when he was confused. He stared at his brother’s hands, whose fingertips didn’t come a single centimeter past the doorframe. His shoes came up and replanted themselves every few moments like a first time gardener afraid to put his posies too close to his roses or violets.

“Are you thcared?” he asked. Vincent squirmed. 

“No! Well...” He blushed and stared down at his feet. “Not exactly. Outside makes me uncomfortable is all.” 

A cold breeze brushed against his hair and he shuddered. He held onto the wall for support and stared above Alan’s curls, past the fence, and into the distance.

“You should be afraid. Bad things can happen if you go outside. Maybe you’ll get caught in a storm, or maybe you’ll meet some whack job and... and...” he trailed off. He gnawed on his fingers to keep them from trembling. 

“Don’t be thcared, Vinthent. We have a pretty, little backyard. Come thee!”

“But...”

“It’th okay! You’re fine!” 

He contemplated running back inside and leaving him behind. But something would surely go wrong, something would surely hurt his brother if he didn’t watch well enough. His shaking fingers balled up and he took a tiny breath.

He was outside.

Well, it was just a foot or two but still.

“You did it!” Alan cheered! He ran around in circles again, laughing his head off. Vincent looked around himself nervously.

“I... guess. I’m still not a fan.” he admitted. 

“But it’th not terrible?” Alan asked. His brother snorted.

“It’s certainly ugly...” He spat at the ground. “It’s all just dead grass and dirt...”

Alan ran to the farthest corner of the yard and beckoned him. He crawled around until he found the brightest, greenest, healthiest piece of vegetation he could.

“But look! A patch of living grath!” Vincent squatted to check.

“Hm. So it is. It’s not really that impressive. Grass is known to grow in even the worst conditions. So by definition our yard is still ugly and unremarkable.”

A raindrop soaked into the foliage. Vincent gasped. More pattered down. He picked up his young brother and ran inside. The door slammed and locked shut behind them. He could hear the sheets of rain coming down against the house.

“It’s -“ he panted. “- acid rain!” He shot Alan an angry look. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s dangerous. There’s no arguing it.”


	6. Reference

A very, very long time ago someone would have told him his birthday should be a happy day. But there were no happy days, he insisted. Not unless you were stupid, or fooling, or completely out of your mind. 

In spite of that, Vincent couldn’t help feeling that day should have been more special than him hiding under his covers, frozen in fear at the explosive sound of a lightning strike outside the house.

“Hate it, hate it, hate it...!” he whimpered.

The bright flash of light stung the insides of his eyelids and stayed there. The tears pouring out of him did nothing to wash away the memory. If anything, it was made worse, and he couldn’t help thinking back to when he was young. He covered his ears as the old booms echoed.

The artist cried harder at the realization that with his age came the absence of comfort. At eighteen he was far too old to snuggle up with his mother, and to have her pet his head and tell him he would be okay, that mommy was there, and she would protect him. All he could do now was squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he didn’t exist.

“Why are you crying?”

He gasped at the voice, and threw his covers off. 

“What the Hell? How did you... I was sure I locked the door!” 

Vincent saw the bobby pin sticking out of his little brother’s pocket and hissed. 

“You creep! Sneaking into my room like that! I’ll tell mom!” he shouted. Alan ignored him and hopped onto the foot of the bed. Vincent pulled his knees into his chest. 

“Why are you crying?” he asked again.

Vincent suddenly felt extremely embarrassed. He wiped his wet face on the sleeve of his djellaba but it did little for his disheveled appearance. 

“What’s it to you? Why - why SHOULDN’T I cry? You’ve seen the news! What an awful world!” he exclaimed. 

“What about it has you upset? Are you afraid?” Alan asked. “You cried since the storm started. Are you afraid of the storm?”

Vincent’s empty stomach churned at his sibling’s analysis. Automatically the tears started to flow again. He growled. How could he keep himself from bursting when he was asked something so directly?

“Afraid - argh! I’m always afraid! And what’s so wrong about it? What - what do you think you’re going to do about it!? The news, Alan! It’s all horrible, I already said so!”

The boy scooted close to him and rested his palm on Vincent’s boney shoulder.

“But the grass - it’s living.” 

Vincent smacked and scratched and shoved him.

“Mooooom! Alan won’t get out of my room!”


	7. Love

Things had changed so much in the course of only a few weeks. Vincent didn’t think a place so desolate could become so full of life. He didn’t mind, not exactly. 

It was nice to have some relief. For the first time in a while he wasn’t spending every day locked away in his room. He was making art that people could really enjoy - and that gave them hope! It almost made him smile. 

Even so, things were taxing. 

He stared down at the skull and bones. The heat rose up and pricked his eyes. He thought the batter might have been burning, but his mind was somewhere else. 

All the individual voices of patrons clumped together and started to rise in his ears. It made his head feel tight.

“Vincent, have you finished with those orders? Our customers are becoming impatient!”

He was gone and the pan was on fire. Lucrèce tossed it into the sink and angrily shouted for Marilyn to come help her catch up. Her crowd of male followers whimpered with disappointment.

The littlest Tuvache looked up the stairs with a crooked smile. When nobody was looking he snuck away and crept down the hall of their apartment. He found the door to his brother’s room open. Vincent didn’t notice him entering.

“You ran off.” he said.

The artist looked at him with surprise. He turned away soon after.

“Yes, I know. I’ve got a massive migraine.”

Alan laughed and jumped onto the bed with him.

“But you always have a headache! I thought you were in a good mood.”

“I did too.”

His eyes were trained on the closed window.

“What’s out there?” Alan asked.

“I’m not sure.” He was quiet for a while, and so was his brother. He sat beside him patiently. “... What’s the matter with your head? You’re not like you should be.”

“You mean because I smile? I don’t think anything is wrong with that.” Of course he had a huge, cheesy grin when he said that. 

Vincent slumped against the wall. He wasn’t sure whether to feel comforted or annoyed by the ray of sunshine beside him. 

“Twenty or more people could die in front of you and you would be happy because a mother and child made it out. That’s not normal.” 

Alan looked like he might argue, but he paused. Instead he turned to face his older brother directly. 

“You’re right. By worldly standards I’m not normal. But why’s that a bad thing? In the days of cavemen I imagine the world’s first artist came to be. Since nobody else understood art at the time, technically he wasn’t normal. Does that make it bad?”

Vincent was surprised. Sometimes his little brother was more clever than he expected. He relented, and shook his head.

“I guess not. But still... I don’t understand.”

“Do you feel incapable of happiness?” Alan asked. The artist shook his head. He stared down at his clothes, which were decorated in an explosive pattern. He picked at the fabric as he spoke, as though he were ashamed.

“The... the chocolates you shared with me the other day were very good. It was nice to eat and not feel disgusted with myself.” He brushed his fingers over his cheek. His face was beginning to fatten up. “And I like to cook for our customers.” 

For a few seconds he almost smiled, but it quickly faded. 

“And how do you feel? Now I mean.”

“I don’t know, I feel a lot of different ways most of the time. I’m... sad, but I’m also afraid. Mostly I’m angry.”

“Why’s that?” 

He took his bandaged head in his hands. He seemed to struggle, and Alan gave him some room. Vincent recovered though, and curled in on himself without further incident.

“I can’t seem to stop thinking, not ever. My head’s running in circles. I’m always thinking of the bad things that have happened.” He peeked at Alan shyly. “Or the bad things that will happen. And they WILL happen. I’ve told you all about how dangerous and terrifying the world is.”

“Just because something bad could happen doesn’t mean you have to be scared.”

“Oh, but I can’t help it! Even when I’m having fun I feel on edge.” 

“Did you always feel like that?”

Vincent was caught so off guard he could do little more than stare. Time seemed to rewind to the very moment before those crazed depressives attacked. The air in his lungs leaving him, he couldn’t speak. 

“I... there was...” 

Alan looked at him sweetly. His face was understanding and kind. Vincent took a moment to steady himself.

“There was a brief time... Of course I’ve always felt depressed, the same as everyone, but... otherwise...” 

“What happened, Vincent?” 

His eyes filled with tears. He shook his head.

“I can’t.”

Through his blurred sight he could make out Alan’s hand hovering over his knee. He waited for permission. Vincent’s face softened and his brother moved in to comfort him. 

“It’s okay,” he promised. “You don’t have to.”

They were quiet for a while. The boy waited for him to finish sniffling, and to dry his face. After he calmed down Alan sat up.

“I think the world and all its people are sick. Maybe some more than others,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t be happy or okay. They just need some extra care.” He took his brother’s big, spindly hand in his. It felt cold. 

“Is that what you think?” Vincent asked.

“Yes. Nobody can feel good all the time. You can try, but there will be times you’re scared and angry and sad. But you will not be alone.” 

He pressed into his side, soft and delicate like a kitten. Vincent felt infected by his warmth. 

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Despite everything that’s happened, grass is still growing.”

At this he finally smiled. In fact, he laughed a little. He wrapped an arm around his beloved sibling.

“Oh, I see.”

The brothers hugged and nuzzled against each other, chuckling to themselves. Finally Alan skipped away.

“I have to go. Mother’s going to be really mad if two of us are gone. Don’t worry, I’ll tell her you’re puking your guts up or something like that.” he said with a wink. As he left he called, “I love you!”

“I love you too.”


End file.
